Category Archives: Cuentos

Summer Night Tales

17th of June. Silence

I love the sound of silence,
The clean peaceful silence
That stays after killing a mosquito.
The sound of death,
Anticipation of a restful sleep,
While I sprawl on my bed
Free of any kind of fabric
Or buzzing noise.
Oh glorious silence of summer nights!

The Dancing Ghost

She was stardust,
A collection of forgotten thoughts,
Dreams that never came true,
Invisible colours gliding in front of your eyes.
She was the most amazing kind of nothingness.
And she loved dancing.

She was dancing on the edge of the world,
Just waiting to become real.
Jumping, spinning, swinging.
But she fell.
She fell on a cloud formed by a million raindrops that embraced her and whispered, “dance with us”.

The Ghost

Tonight I couldn’t find her, she had vanished underneath layers of makeup. Her eyes were framed by black feathers. And her lips were melted passion of wild berries.

Only when I accidentally touched her did I notice her presence, I found her because her skin never changes, it cannot lie. Her soft skin wrapping her soul, a soul speaking the truth her eyes hide, saying the words her lips confine.

I found her and held her hand. I could not see her, but I could feel what her soul was shouting. And it gave me goosebumps. Because I had never touched a more sincere skin than hers.

«Love me». I could feel those words through every single pore. In vain I tried to find her eyes, they were unfathomable. It was hopeless to reach her lips, they would keep vanishing in a storm of deep red.

«How do you want me to love you, if I cannot find you?», I eventually asked her. And then, like a ghost, she released my hand and I lost contact with her skin. I lost her, she was gone. And I knew I would never find her again, because she didn’t want to be found, because she’d rather be a ghost lingering on men’s skins and thoughts, than a real person.

An Evening Romance

It was just an evening romance.
As ephemeral as the first raindrops that moisten his face.
Or the fleeting kiss of the waves on the rocks.
It lasted what it takes for an autumn leaf to touch the ground.
The silence between the breaths of two lovers.
Guilty tears running down her face.
Long before the sun dropped its golden veil over the sea
And the lighthouse fell asleep,
They were gone.
For ever.
Because it was just an evening romance.

The Girl On The Cliff


They were standing on the edge of the cliff of the small island while they gazed at the sun disappearing in the horizon. He held her hand gently and she smiled, eyes fixed on the big orange orb.

When the last chunk of sun was swallowed by the sea, she took a step forward and whispering something he could barely hear, released his hand. In a blink of an eye she was gone. She had jumped. He leaned over the cliff looking for answers, but he couldn’t see her, there was no her falling. Instead, a thousand birds of all colours emerged from the bottom of the cliff, flying towards the end of the sea.

Now she is the wind that those birds leave behind. Now she is free. She can sing through the tiny holes of the cliffs. She can dance with the leaves of the trees.

She can travel with the rays of the sun to warm him up in the cold winter. She can be the morning breeze caressing his skin. The flutter of eyelashes laying next to him. The breath of an I love you she never dared to say.

An ode to shit


Silent, noisy,
Placid, feisty,
You always find
Your way out nicely.

Floating, sinking,
Coward, brave,
You will eventually meet
Your water grave.

Hopeless dauber,
Painter and artist,
You conscientiously leave
Your smeary footprint.

Frugal, lavish,
Colossal or wee,
What a wonderful pleasure is
To set you free.

Impetuous, obstinate,
Wicked, merciful,
Once you’re gone
I will never miss you.

Noemí Rivera

The fire

IMG_6038He whispered something she could not understand and caressed her skin. And an intense heat invaded her body, invisible flames slowly covered her pale skin. She stared into his eyes and took his hand gently. And he too became into a fireball.

She whispered something he could not understand and they melted into a kiss. And the room burst into flames. The sofa, the chairs, the table, the curtains. Everything was on fire, the light was blinding, but they did not care, they just could not stop kissing.

None of them understood what was going on, they had no control over their bodies, they were burning and they did not know why.

And there was not any him nor her anymore, they were a single being in flames, two hearts beating in unison. And when dawn caught them by surprise they were nothing but ashes. Ashes ready to be blown away forever by the cold northern wind.

Soy un fantasma

Hong Kong

Soy un fantasma.

Soy un fantasma que emerge de entre la niebla matinal para mezclarse con las sombras. Sombras sin definir que cada mañana atraviesan la ciudad para ir a trabajar. Figuras teñidas de gris por la niebla, el frío y la tenue luz del alba.

La niebla es mi disfraz; el frio, mi respiración; el sol, mi verdugo. Detente un solo segundo y sentirás mi abrazo, la caricia de un otoño tardío en todo su esplendor.

Soy quien te produce escalofríos. El aire que se cuela entre tus ropas y te estremece, soy el último suspiro del vagabundo que duerme bajo el quiosco de música.

Soy un fantasma, la musa del poeta taciturno, el latigazo de los paseantes mañaneros, una hostil bienvenida a un nuevo día.

Y cuando llegue la primavera, ya nadie me echará de menos.


Aquel whisky barato acabó por rematarlo cuando aún le quedaban muchos amaneceres por ver.

A la pata coja vio pasar frente a sus ojos los borrones de los que se había compuesto su vida.

—Pobre infeliz. Se ha topado con la muerte sin siquiera haber vivido un solo día de su vida —le dijo una voz desde los más profundo de su oscuridad.

—¿Qué? ¿Por qué? —respondió desde algún lugar de camino hacia ninguna parte, donde su alma había sido condenada a pasar la eternidad.

Medianoche de un martes


Llegó en el último tren. Salió de la estación y le sorprendió lo desierta que estaba la calle, no había gente, no había coches. Era la hora de los camiones de basura. Hacía tiempo que no se sentía tan sola en el planeta, caminando por las silenciosas calles. Llovía ligeramente, pero no abrió el paraguas, avanzó mientras las gotas de lluvia le iban humedeciendo la cara.

Al pasar por la plaza, vio que el reloj marcaba las 23:45 y por un momento se sintió como Cenicienta. Pero no, ese no había sido su gran día y tampoco un príncipe azul iría a buscarla. A mitad de camino se cruzó con un viandante despistado que volvía a casa. “¿De dónde vendrá? ¿Quién anda a estas horas por la calle un martes?”, pensó. Después sonrío. «Yo misma».